


Come With Me

by satincolt



Series: Gamkar Ficlets [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Holding Hands, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satincolt/pseuds/satincolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Day OTP Challenge, Day 1:  holding hands</p>
<p>An awkward, blushing dinner date and clumsily "romantic" evening stroll, courtesy of an overly-nervous Karkat and an overly-affectionate Gamzee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come With Me

CG:  SO IS IT OK IF WE MEET AROUND 6?

TC:  I dOn’T sEe WhY iT wOuLdN’t Be, BrO

CG:  GREAT

CG:  I’LL SEE YOU AT 6 THEN.

TC:  SeE yOu ThEn :o)

 

You set your phone down on the bed next to you, scrubbing your hands down your face. You actually did it: you set up a sort-of date with the guy you like.  So now you have just under an hour to not freak out and make yourself look presentable and calm down. It’s not like you’re going anywhere fancy for dinner—you’re going to one of the smallest dining halls on campus, for Christ’s sake.  It’s not a big deal, but nobody told the butterflies in your stomach that.

Eventually, after wasting a sad amount of time online, you pull on a different black shirt from the one you were wearing earlier.  Right as you’re about to duck out the door, you freeze in front of your dresser, caught by indecision—should you put on that necklace or not? It’s not flashy, just a basic masculine necklace with your high school class ring on it, but would it be overdressed?  After scowling at the necklace for an uncomfortable minute, you snatch it off the dresser and put it around your neck.  If it doesn’t fit, you can always tuck it inside your shirt.

It takes you about five minutes to power-walk over to the dining hall, hands jammed self-consciously in the pockets of your jeans.  If you’re early, it’ll look like you’re too eager, but if you’re late, you’ll look cool. Should you stall for a few minutes? What if he walks by and sees you stalling?  That would be humiliating—fuck no. 

As soon as you reach the hall, you duck into the bathroom and pose yourself casually against the wall, pulling out your phone, in case anybody walks in.  It’s 5:53; you’re early.  Well, no, you did say “around 6,” which gives you a little bit of wiggle room. But he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to show up anywhere early.  He seems like the kind of guy who would show up late to his own funeral because he just up and fucking forgot he was supposed to have died.

You’re still not even sure he’s gay.  He never actually _said_ he was and you can’t tell; you have probably the worst gaydar in the whole queer community. But when you met him last night you were _pretty_ sure he was responding to your clumsy-ass flirting and you were also pretty sure he wasn’t drunk or high, but he might just be a flirty person?  Fuck, what if he just wants to be friends because you have the same interests and you cock it up by making a move on him?  You really do want to be friends with him, but you also kind of want to kiss and touch him a lot.  Shit, things just got complicated.

The bathroom door bangs open and you look up sharply and your face gets really cold then really hot all of a sudden.

“Hey brother, fancy findin’ you in here,” Gamzee greets you with a laid-back smile, holding up one hand for a fistbump.  Your palms are suddenly sweaty as fuck and your phone slides out of your grip, clattering to the floor.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you blurt, chasing your phone, then you realize you’re right at Gamzee’s crotch-height and snap up, face probably as red as a fucking tomato. God fucking damnit, you just want to die right here.  Just send the fucking lighting to smite you.

“Nah, man, s’all cool. I gotta take a piss ‘fore I get some grub.  You good?” Gamzee asks. If it’s even physically possible, you blush hotter at his casual crassness.  You shake your head then quickly realize that’s the wrong motion and nod furiously before ducking around Gamzee’s tall frame and bolting out the door.

Shit, shit, shit, Jesus fuck.  That was just the smoothest thing you’ve done ever.  God damn. You jam your phone in your back pocket and jog up the stairs to the dining hall (on the top floor of the building, God why?), in shock at how completely dumb that whole humiliating interaction was.  How are you going to look him in the face after _that_?

You get your food and find a seat, poking at your chicken and wondering if your plate looks too… unhealthy? Will Gamzee really care? Ugh, why did you take sloppy foods? God damnit.  Does having milk as your drink make you look like a baby?

“Yo,” Gamzee jolts you out of your examination of your plate.  “Karkat, right?”

You nod.

“I ain’t heard that name afore,” Gamzee comments.

“I’ve never heard the name Gamzee before either,” you retort, glancing at Gamzee’s plate. Pretty much the same things you have, that’s good.  You allow yourself to relax a bit, but you still can’t look anywhere him, keeping your gaze studiously turned down to your plate, or off to the left.

“So how was a motherfucker’s day?” Gamzee asks around a mouthful of spaghetti.

“Boring,” you mumble and swallow your chicken, “I only had one class today.”

“Which one?”

“Math with young Simon,” you say.

“Damn bro! Young Simon puts me right the motherfuck to sleep.  I don’t get half the shit that motherfucker spits at us,” Gamzee takes a big swig of his drink. “Say, you up to helpin’ a motherfucker with some calculus?”

You rub the back of your neck and glance over at Gamzee, only to flush when you catch his eyes for a second—he’s looking straight at you, oh my god—but answer, “yeah, I mean, I’ll try.”

“Sweet!” Gamzee claps you on the shoulder, causing you to drop your fork. 

“So, uh,” you start eloquently as you fish your fork out of your salad, “do you call everybody ‘motherfucker,’ or is that just…?”

“Heh,” Gamzee chuckles, “yeah, I never saw a motherfuckin’ problem with it.  Does it bother you, brother?  ‘Cause I can up and stop with that sorta verbage if it gets to botherin’ you.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, “I don’t care, I was just curious…”

“Say, motherfucker, do you want to get our walk on around the lake?  I found the most bitchtits view the other day,” Gamzee offers and your stomach twists with excitement.

“Sure.”

xxx

It’s colder than you expected outside, especially this close to the water, but that doesn’t bother you too much.  Gamzee’s doing a pretty good job of keeping the conversation going—he doesn’t shut up—and the dimness of the twilight gives you pretty good cover to get a decent look at him.

He’s going on excitedly about his band from high school and while you’re definitely interested in hearing some of his music, you’re also definitely interested in the way emotes in an almost exaggerated manner as he talks.  Gamzee has such a sharp, angular face he looks almost hawkish, would look predatory, if he didn’t have such a mellow expression on most of the time. The guy’s probably a good half a foot taller than you and built like a scarecrow, but if the size of his spidery, artistic hands are anything to go off of… he’s not lacking.

“What’s a motherfucker gettin’ his smile on for?” Gamzee asks, suddenly, peering down at you.

“Oh,” you blush suddenly, god you’re blushing like a fucking schoolgirl, “nothing really imp— _shit!”_ An errant root snags your foot and you’re on a one-way trip to make out with the dirt, except your right shoulder jerks and you find yourself pulled flush to Gamzee’s chest, your right hand laced with his.  “Oh,” you breathe.

“You alright there, brother?” Gamzee asks, looking down at you.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great,” you push yourself away from Gamzee quickly and take a few steps down the path before realizing he hasn’t let go of your hand.  You turn towards him and look quizzically down at your clasped hands, then back at his face, raising one eyebrow.

“You said you were up an’ interested in some of my music, brother?” Gamzee winks at you and continues with his earlier line of conversation.  You squint at him for a second.

“…Yeah.”

“Well, that’s motherfuckin’ great, ‘cause I just happen to have a CD in my room.” You can _hear_ the smile in Gamzee’s voice.  He squeezes your hand and your heart feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and you might vomit you’re so excited and happy (and fuck, you’re getting flashbacks from your first boyfriend in high school, but you’re not going to go there now).

By the time the two of you make it all the way around the lake, Gamzee has saved you from tripping two more times and your hands are kind of sweaty together, but you don’t care too much and you guess Gamzee doesn’t either.  This kind of solves the question of whether or not he’s gay—well, whether or not he’s gay for _you_ , at least.  It does create another problem, though, when you’re too high on endorphins to sleep, lying in bed as your roommate snores, still feeling the sensation of Gamzee’s cool fingers between yours and there’s no way in the world you could be happier.


End file.
